Tuor was a mass of sorrow and fury, but then it seemed he understood. Whereas, only moments before, the stout man had been tightly coiled to fight for his son, he now gave him into Sodar’s protection. Something passed between the two men – a silent goodbye whose depth only a mourning father could fathom.
And then the master avatars were on him. Tuor fought for long enough to gently lower Aegen’s body to the ground, and then he reared back, throwing off the first men to have grabbed him. Sodar and the two witwomen fell back from the crowd as the remaining master avatars joined the fray, pinning Tuor’s arms and legs and then binding them with tough cords. Even beaten and bound, the blacksmith still thrashed and kicked, worming his way across the earth until he reached his lifeless wife. He curled his own broad figure around hers, protecting her from what was to come.
Sodar was helpless to aid his friend. But Tuor had sacrificed himself to save his son, and Sodar had sworn to protect him, so he kept his eyes fixed on the bundle in Lana’s arms and shadowed the two witwomen as they moved away. They had reached the edge of the village square when he heard Elder Winsor’s ageing voice struggling to rise above the roar of the crowd. A moment later, Tosan’s booming baritone rang out instead.
‘A Son of Keos has been born among us,’ Tosan shouted. ‘Our duty is clear! The beasts of Keos shall consume the Sons of Keos. But to us lies the burden – nay, the privilege – of breaking the vessel of Keos!’
A few villagers cheered at this, and Sodar found it difficult not to stop and take note of them. He knew what he would see if he looked back, because he had seen it before: the villagers would be gathering stones, and then, too soon, the Breaking would begin.
While he had paused, Lana and Kelga had left the square. As the pair made their way east through the village, Sodar followed at a discreet distance. Behind him Tuor’s cries were being swallowed by the roar of the crowd. ‘Cleanse the filth!’ screamed one voice. ‘Spawn of Keos!’ shouted another, all to the snarling chant of ‘Break-their-bones!’
Sodar forced himself onward, trying not to pick out individual voices from the mob. Distance blended the screams into one murderous cacophony, and then a new wail sprang up ahead of him. This one was high, constant, and piercing – the sound of a hungry baby, frightened and alone.
But not for long. Because Sodar was coming for him.
Lana lay still at the edge of the forest clearing, her breath rising and falling steadily in mimicry of sleep. To her right she saw Kelga’s hunched silhouette framed against the starry sky. The bony old witwoman paced back and forth, her attention on the babe they had placed near a copse of blackthorn, yet there was an anxiousness to the woman’s movements that concerned Lana.
At first, she’d thought the grandmother simply wished to support her. That made sense. Lana had given birth to a daughter only a month ago, and it was uncommon for witwomen to return to midwifing so soon. But it wasn’t as if Lana was participating in the reaping – that would have been too much even for her resilient body – and observing the death of a Son of Keos was hardly rigorous. All Lana need do was stay awake till the beasts of the Brakewood came, drawn by the child’s cries and the blood on the infant’s blanket.
But Kelga had persisted in her commitment to witness the child’s death. It surprised Lana, not because the older witwoman was frail – Lana had often seen the crone endure trials that overwhelmed other witwomen – but because Kelga was selfish, solitary, and consistently uncaring towards others. Indeed, Lana suspected Kelga’s sour demeanour was the chief reason Witmistress Kiara had asked her to stay behind for the reaping.
Yet here Kelga was, offering to keep vigil with Lana and even insisting that she take the first watch. Lana had declined at first, but Kelga had worn her down.
Rather than sleep, Lana had watched Kelga grow increasingly restless as the forest grew darker. A cold prickle of dread crawled into her blankets as the older woman finally settled herself against a tree trunk. Minutes passed. Clouds floated over the forest canopy and Lana became filled with an unreasonable fear. Something was wrong. She slowed her breathing, listening intently to the forest as Kelga’s silhouette blended with the shadows. She could not pinpoint the reason for her fear, so she combatted it the only way she knew how: by being prepared. In one hand, she held a fistful of mushroom spores; in the other, her reaping knife – the same stiletto she had plunged into Aegen’s skull.
She heard the soft crunch of careful feet stepping on dry sticks and leaves behind her and tensed, suddenly realising Kelga had moved.
‘Why do you feign sleep?’ A long moment passed.
‘Because I fear death,’ Lana breathed.
‘It is wise to fear what we do not understand,’ Kelga said, her voice creaking. ‘But death comes for us all.’
‘Do you bring it with you now?’
The old woman’s laugh was dry and husky, and Lana’s fear deepened. She loosened her blanket, preparing for the attack she knew would come.
‘You should have let me take the child,’ Kelga said.
Lana shifted in her blanket, meditating on Kelga’s words as realisation dawned. ‘You’re a Daughter of Keos. A handmaiden of death. The rumours about the schism … they’re true.’
‘I am no handmaiden,’ Kelga replied evenly. ‘Death is my shadow. He follows me wherever I go … and he is here now, calling for the child.’
The boy’s crying had quieted, and it seemed sleep had finally claimed him. Lana glanced towards the babe in the grove.
‘And calling for you.’
Kelga struck. The dagger plunged down so hard and fast that Lana could barely dodge. The blade bit deep into her shoulder, narrowly missing her chest. She twisted, wrenching herself free, and threw the spores into Kelga’s face.
The old woman screamed, her bony hands clawing at her cheeks and eyes as she fell back – but the spores were potent, choking her, silencing her.
Lana dragged herself to her feet and stumbled into the centre of the clearing. She knew the spores in Kelga’s throat would quickly blossom and bloom, expanding until they crushed Kelga’s windpipe and suffocated the old hag, so Lana used the moonlight to assess the damage the old woman had inflicted.
The wound was deep. Worse, Lana had torn the muscle in ripping herself free of Kelga’s knife. If she didn’t staunch the flow of blood now, she wouldn’t survive the walk back. Lana tore a strip off her blanket, one end in her teeth, and began wrapping her injured arm.
‘Your instincts are commendable,’ Kelga croaked.
Lana turned to see Kelga stagger into the moonlit clearing. Vomit flecked the witwoman’s lips, but she breathed freely. It seemed Lana’s aim had been poor: instead of choking the old woman, the spores had claimed Kelga’s eyes: they were clouded over, the same colour as her bleached-bone hair. Lana backed away from the crazed witwoman and noticed that Kelga followed her more with her ears than her eyes.